Leave the Past Behind
by music842
Summary: The aftermath of the Curtis parents' deaths, and its effect on Dally and Johnny.


**Companion piece to _Just a Moment More_. Hope you enjoy! S.E. Hinton owns everything.**

_I don't care if tomorrow never comes..._

Dallas drained the last of the whiskey left in his glass. _Dallas, Buck Merrill's is no place for a sixteen-year-old. I don't want you going over there again, you're always welcome to stay here if you need a place, you know that..._

_This world holds nothin' for me..._

"Goddamnit Buck, why don't you turn that shit off! I don't want hear anymore fuckin' Hank Williams!" Dallas slammed his glass down on the bar, coming perilously close to shattering it. A few of the less rowdy customers glanced in Dallas' direction, but for the most part, his outburst went unacknowledged amidst the general cacophony of the room.

Dallas' head was pounding, and it wasn't too hard to summon up a fierce anger. Anything would be better than that empty numbness that had gnawed at him all day. _You're a good boy, Dally, I see how you look out for Johnny. What you did in the past doesn't matter now. That's over. New York is over._ Dally never told her even close to the worst of what happened in New York, but her words had still made him feel better.

Dallas walked over to the pool table where Buck was standing, and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Buck looked momentarily surprised, and then a little scared. He hadn't yet noticed how much Dallas had to drink.

"Turn that shit off!" Dallas demanded, referring to the melancholy Hank Williams that was still playing, and raised his arm to punch Buck square in the face, but he missed. Buck gave him a look, it almost seemed like pity, which only made Dally madder. Buck raised his hand to stop another badly-thrown punch.

"Listen, Winston, I ain't in the mood to be takin' care of drunk kids. Go sit down, or get out. I don't want the police called in here." Usually, Dallas had the full advantage with Buck; he never had a problem getting his way, because Buck was so easily intimidated. But then again, he never usually downed a whole bottle of Jack in one sitting. Dally liked control. Drinking like this was reserved for the likes of his old man, or Two-Bit.

Dallas resigned himself to sitting back down, as he realized he wouldn't win any fight in his condition. An hour later, when he sobered up a little bit, he made his way up to the shabby room he had claimed as his own, and threw himself down on the bed. The whole room smelled like piss and booze, and the paper-thin walls did nothing to cover up the sounds of the party downstairs.

After trying unsuccessfully to get some sleep, Dallas eventually left, slamming the screen door behind him. As he stepped out onto the dilapidated porch, the cold air engulfed him, freezing his breath in his lungs, making him gasp for air. He was reminded of those winter nights in New York, when Alex and him would find some abandoned building to sleep in, when things were too bad at home, and he didn't think he would ever feel his feet or hands again. He wasn't sure how either of them kept themselves alive as long as they did.

The walk to the empty lot felt like five miles instead of one. The cold cut right through him, even though he was wearing his fleece lined jacket. He hoped Johnny wasn't out here. He wasn't sure what was worse-Johnny's father, or being out in well below freezing temperatures. But sure enough, as he made his way into the lot, nearly tripping on a pile of empty beer cans, Dally could see a small form huddled at the back corner.

"What the hell you doin' out here, Johnny? You'll catch your death of cold. Where the hell's your coat?" Normally, he'd demand Johnny head over to the Curtises', walk him over himself, but not tonight.

Johnny just shrugged, looking down. The jeans jacket was all he had.

Dallas sighed, sitting down next to Johnny. He pulled out a cigarette, holding it between shaking fingers, numb from the cold, and offered one to Johnny, who took it thankfully. The ends of their cigarettes glowed in the darkness.

Neither of the boys said anything for a long time. Both were lost in their own thoughts, both too cold to say much of anything. Johnny wanted to tell Dally about the funeral, tell him that Darry wasn't mad at him for not being there. And Dally wanted to ask Johnny if the Curtises were pissed he wasn't there, because he was pissed at himself.

A gust of cold wind blew through the lot, and Johnny shivered.

"You cold, Johnnycake?"

Johnny nodded, and Dally put his arm around the younger boy's shoulder.

"Thought I'd gotten rid of this cold after I left New York..." Dallas muttered, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.

"Dal, what was New York like?" Johnny looked over at his friend.

Dally sighed, because he knew what Johnny was really asking. He had told the gang plenty of times about the fights he'd gotten into, about the hell he'd raised. But anything else, he kept closely guarded. Looking at Johnny, he tried to think of a way to tell him it wasn't all winning fights and looking tough without seeming weak. If it were anyone else besides Johnny, he wouldn't have said anything at all.

"It wasn't good, Johnny. It was pretty shitty. I lived in Hell's Kitchen, and trust me, this Soc versus Greaser bullshit ain't nothin' compared to the Puerto Ricans and the Irish. They hated each other. Don't know why, all of 'em were just as poor, but one or the other was always trying to kill each other. It changed me." Dally looked down at his hands, and took an extra long drag on his cigarette. His stomach felt off from all the booze, and he hoped Johnny didn't ask any more questions. "I ain't proud of some the stuff I did."

Johnny stared at Dally, a little wide-eyed. Dally hadn't spoken like this before. _He had been drinking_, Johnny told himself. _He smelled like whiskey when he first walked over, he's just drank too much_. "Dal, you know that doesn't matter now. I don't care." Dally had looked out for Johnny more times than he could count, and whatever Dally had done in New York wouldn't change that.

Johnny couldn't read Dally's expression; it seemed almost pained. Maybe he drank too much, felt sick. But it wasn't the whiskey; Dallas was stuck in the memory of Mrs. Curtis' very similar words. She hadn't cared about his past, either. _God, she really was dead..._

"Dal, maybe we should go to the Curtis' house..." Johnny said nervously. "You don't look so good..."

Dallas shook his head emphatically, if he went there, and she wasn't there, it would be real.

The wind continued to whistle through the trees, and both boys were chilled to the bone. Dally could feel his teeth clacking against each other.

"Why'd it have to be her, Johnny? Why couldn't it have been my old man? Or that son of a bitch who beats you up every week?" Johnny winced at Dally's cold, but accurate description of his father.

All Dally could think about was that she had cared for him more than his own mother had, even when she was sober. _Jesus_. He ran his hands through his white-blonde hair, trying to get control of himself, yet his eyes still stung, and his throat was still tight. What the hell was wrong with him?

"I miss her too, Dally. It'll be ok." Johnny patted his shoulder, and Dally let out a choked sound, turning away from the younger boy. Dally was glad it was cold, because otherwise his shaking would be more obvious.

But Johnny could tell. Johnny could tell Dally was crying, that he was simultaneously horrified at showing weakness, yet completely lost. Both of them were lost. There was no stability in either of their lives. Johnny knew he shouldn't keep going back to his parents, shouldn't let them hurt him, but he would never break away. And Dally—he knew there were days when he wondered if anyone even cared if he were alive or dead. Dally needed Johnny just as much as he needed Dally.

Johnny kept his hand on Dally's back until he was able to calm down. Dally fell asleep soon after, despite the cold. It took Johnny much longer.

* * *

When both boys woke up the next morning, there was a heavy wool blanket around them and a note.

_You're not sleeping outside when it's below freezing again. Next time, come to our house, you can have the couch and the armchair._

_Darry_


End file.
